


Unexpected Intimacies (A Sex Pollen Story)

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [11]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Boundaries, Desperation, Embarrassment, First Time, Love, Misunderstandings, Multi, Polyamory, Second Time, Sex Pollen, Vulnerability, biological necessity, breaching of boundaries caused by sex pollen, emotional understanding, so much porn, unedited chatfic, working things out together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 10:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18050765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Lovett’s over at Jon and Emily’s when it hits them.





	Unexpected Intimacies (A Sex Pollen Story)

**Author's Note:**

> Contains Lovett/Emily explicit sexual contact (initiated by sex pollen). Additional details at the end.

Emily can't remember the last time she, Jon, or Lovett actively planned one of their weekly date nights. It always just comes together, somehow. They all make space and time for each other, always. Some parts of the year it's Thursdays; sometimes it's Sundays; often, it's Fridays after he gets back from taping his show, wired and in need of conversation.

Right now, Lovett is lying upside down on their couch, legs flung over the back, scrolling through Twitter and reading the worst highlights out to Jon, apparently just to make him groan.

Emily remembers a time, before LOLI, when she and Jon were becoming the old not-quite-yet married couple who went to bed early on Friday nights. Now, they keep Lovett hours, and sleep until noon on Saturdays. It's—she checks the clock—midnight, and probably hours of Lovett time left.

She loves it.

Jon comes back from the kitchen, wine glasses in hand, and stops in the doorway to look fondly at Lovett, still upside down and still talking. Emily catches his eye; he blushes—so pretty when he blushes, her husband—and that's when something... shifts. It starts as a sort of ringing in her ears: she frowns, shakes her head like it might help.

She’s blinking at the coffee table, wondering if this is what migraines feel like, when she hears Jon say, “I don’t ... feel great.”

EMP, she thinks. Like what makes people think houses are haunted. Some electronic something in their house is going haywire, and it’s making her, and Jon, feel weird and woozy and—tingly.

Lovett sits up clumsily, one hand at his temple, face scrunched with discomfort. It's that more than anything that clues Emily into the fact that something is—off. Weirdly off. Lovett hides discomfort at all cost, when it's real. "Uh," he says. "What was in that postmates?"

“Dunno,” Jon says. His voice sounds off, and when he moves to set the glasses down, he’s walking stiffly.

That’s not what clues her in. What clues her in is the way Lovett pulls a pillow onto his lap just as Emily feels a rush of sensation ... downstairs. “Uh,” she says, and can’t follow it up with any real words.

"Yeah," Lovett says, kind of tightly, not looking at either of them.

Emily's breasts get this dull ache, her nipples tight and unignorable. She aches between her legs too, like she's been teased for hours. She hasn't been. None of them have. Jon sits awkwardly next to her and, when she turns and sees him tugging a pillow onto his own lap, she's in time to see him hard, obvious in his jeans.

“Um, I’ve gotta go,” Lovett says, tightly. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

He starts to get up, then makes a strangled noise and drops back down with a thump. “Okay, that’s gonna be a, a problem.” Emily turns toward him and realizes she can _smell_ him—not cologne or shampoo but really him, the scent of his body, dialled up to eleven. To forty-six.

She tries to fight past it, focus in on what he needs, but—she _knows_ what he needs, or, at least, it's easy enough to guess. It's the same as she needs, the same thing that has Jon shifting on the couch next to her. She wants Jon's fingers in her, his clever mouth on her clit, wringing her out until she screams.

"Lovett," she says, and Lovett makes this low noise, grabs for the pillow again, face twisting in a way she can't read.

“Can both of _you_ leave?” Lovett asks, voice tight. “Is that an option?”

“I don’t think it ... is,” Jon mumbles, and then he’s moving towards her, and she tilts into it, lets him press her into the back of the couch, mouth desperate on hers.

“Oh, fuck,” Lovett says, and gropes for her hand on Jon’s waist, threads their fingers together. “I can’t—“

His fingers are tight between hers and she squeezes them, clutches on as Jon keeps kissing her and kissing her, frantic, zero to sixty, throwing a knee between hers so he's straddling her thigh. "Lovett," she gasps, as they both hang on to each other, as Jon's hips push forward. "What do you need?"

“Privacy,” he says, but then, “Just—don’t look.”

She doesn’t, even though, god, she wants to. She’s never had more than passing dirty thoughts about Lovett, the same as any of her hot friends, but suddenly nothing in the world is as tantalizing as getting to see what she can suddenly hear. The slap of his hand on his skin is—too evocative, too unmistakable.

She grabs for Jon’s cock in hopes that will soothe this need, yanks his fly open with Lovett’s left hand still following her right. She doesn’t think about that when she wraps her hand around Jon, until Lovett gasps and groans and says, tightly, “This isn’t—working—“

"Don't—stop—" Jon chokes, but Lovett isn't pulling away, his hand still in Emily's. Jon is hard and hot in her hand—their hands—and Lovett groans again, low and intent.

Lovett makes a frustrated noise, the kind that Emily associates with being on the verge of tears, that angry, pent-up level of frustration, and then his other hand is there, too, squeezing into Jon's fly. "Need to—" he says, and doesn't finish the thought, but Emily feels like she gets it. Whatever the fuck is happening—and she has less and less brain space to contemplate it—she needs her hands on skin.

"Take your shirt off," she tells Jon, and then she's peeling it off him before he can even start to comply, because she needs, she _needs_ his chest against her. She needs her own shirt off, but she can't take her hand out of Lovett's, or off Jon's cock.

Jon seems to understand, or at least needs the same thing, because his stomach muscles go tight to keep him balanced as he fumbles a hand under her shirt. She's not wearing a bra under it, so his hand finds her tit, and he rolls his palm over her nipple, making her gasp with frustration and need. Lovett swears next to her, and she tightens her grip on his hand, desperate..

"This isn't, ah," Jon says, and she can't tell what that tone is. Abashed, maybe, but something else, too. "This isn't _working_."

That's what Lovett had said, she remembers suddenly, and now she gets it, why Lovett's touching Jon and not himself. "Oh, god," she says. There's half a flash of a rational response—calling for an ambulance, something about the dangers of four-hour erections—and then all she can think is _nobody's getting off until we fuck_ , and that takes over entirely, crowding out every other thought.

She drags Jon back in, kisses him rough and desperate, knocking Jon off balance so he's lying full against her, her hand and Lovett's squashed between them, Jon's whole long body pressing her insistently into the couch. Lovett makes that sound again, needy and urgent and close to tears, and she pulls her mouth free to say, "Jon, Lovett—Lovett needs you."

She wants, so much, to touch him herself, help him herself, to watch him need it, but she doesn't want to—push anything past whatever the fuck is happening.

"Yeah," Jon says, and "Christ, that's—" and then he's lifting off her and turning towards Lovett, saying, "Let me?"

Lovett just—lets him, wordless, and Emily scrambles up to her knees to watch as Jon pushes Lovett down, instead, hand on his jaw. Lovett's kissing her husband, and it's the hottest fucking thing she's ever seen.

Jon's not holding back, kissing like a prelude to a fuck, open mouthed and dirty. He looks so _big_ against Lovett, holding him down, and Lovett moans, and colour flushes immediately up the part of his face Emily can see. She jams a hand in her shorts, gasping.

She gets it, almost instantly, what they meant. _It's not working_. It doesn't satisfy her—it doesn't even hint at satisfaction. It makes it worse, maybe, the need and the desperation. She puts her hands on Jon's back, instead, and starts yanking his pants off of him. "We need to—"

"Yeah," Jon says, and then, "Maybe—we could try—" and to her surprise and Lovett's gasped "oh, shit," he ducks down to where Lovett's cock is still poking out of his jeans and takes the head in his mouth.

Lovett bucks up off the couch, gasping, hands fisting. He's squeezing Emily's hand almost tight enough to be painful. Jon looks so fucking good like this, his beautiful mouth wrapped around the head of Lovett's dick, eyes closed, face screwed up with pleasure. Lovett gasps and and gasps and takes it until he's squirming, and then pushes Jon away, wiping his eyes.

"Still not, uh—"

"Working," Emily fills in for Lovett, and Jon looks up at her with a question on his face. "Yeah. Jon, can you—Lovett needs—"

Lovett makes a squeaking sound, rushes to say, "I'll, it's fine, I'll ... figure something out—" but Jon's already starting to pull Lovett's jeans off.

"Let us help you," Emily tells him.

"Oh, fuck," Lovett says, and then he covers his face with his arm as Jon reaches up to drag Lovett's underwear off too. Lovett stops him just as Lovett's cock is out, and Emily looks at his face, the way he's gone tense, and says, "Maybe like this, Jon," putting a hand on Jon's bare back, gritting her teeth against how good his skin feels against her palm. Fuck, she needs—she needs something _in_ her, is what she needs, suddenly feeling empty, clenching around nothing.

"This won't do it," Jon mumbles, but he grinds down against Lovett anyway. "Lovett, fuck, please—need it so much, don't you—don't you need it? I could—you can fuck me, instead, if you want, just please god let's—something, we have to."

Lovett grinds back up, still hiding his face, letting Jon bury his face in his neck. "Fuck," he's saying. "Fuck, Jon, you don't mean that, oh, shit."

"I really fucking do," Jon tells him. "Emily, tell him."

It's news to Emily, too, that Jon would let Lovett fuck him, but she's certainly going to back up her husband. "He does, he totally means it."

Lovett jerks again. He still hasn't let go of Emily's hand. "Fuck," he says, voice breaking. "Okay, Jon, fuck, I can't—you gotta do something, please."

“God. Fuck. Yeah. Which way do you want it?” Jon sounds desperate—like he does just before he comes, even though she’s sure now that he can’t, yet.

“Fuck me,” Lovett mumbles, and reaches down to push his briefs farther down his thighs.

Jesus. Emily can barely stand it, any of it: the gorgeous tension on her husband's face; the desperate need between her thighs; the way Lovett is squirming and suffering beside her. He needs—he needs Jon inside him. Her two Jons.

"We need—Emily, can you move?" Jon's pulling Lovett's underwear the rest of the way off and tugging his knee up, spreading his thighs. Emily's transfixed; she can't stop staring. "Emily?"

She shakes her head, trying to clear it. "Yeah, I'll—yeah." She manages to stand up, legs shaking with it, and to cross into the kitchen, where they've at least got oil and, she manages to think in time, kitchen towels to put underneath so they don't completely wreck the couch. It's weird to have the brain space for that, and she wonders suddenly if it's airspace. If they could escape this, if they separated entirely.

Then a wave of arousal passes through her, strong enough to almost bring her to her knees, and she thinks, _maybe not._

She has to grab the counter and breathe through it before she can go back, the oil clutched in one hand. There's no way she could have made it to the bedroom, no way she could have brought the lube.

When she comes back in, Lovett has his face turned away from Jon and she can see his expression, wanting and desperate, like she never thought she'd see. Jon is kissing his neck, Lovett's legs up around his back, and they look—they look like she fucking dreamed them up.

She can see the way Jon's grinding down into Lovett, and the way, visible on his face, it's _not working_. "Here," she says, breathless, and hands Lovett the bottle. He's got enough presence of mind to make a face when he recognizes what it is, but he unscrews the cap and pours some over his fingers anyway. Emily remembers the towels and doesn't fucking care anymore, because Lovett's reaching between him and Jon to finger himself open. She can't see it—Christ, she wants to see it—but Jon can, and he makes a noise that's nearly a growl.

Emily has to sit, hard, on the coffee table; her legs won't support her anymore. She needs to be filled _so much_ , doesn't know how she's going to wait for Jon. Somehow.

She has to touch herself again, even though it's futile, even though it's almost so pointless as to hurt; she can't just sit with this furious need thrumming through her.

Jon is watching Lovett's fingers. Fuck, She's going to make him tell her everything later, how Lovett's fingers looked, how he worked them into himself, how fast and how far he liked it, how the oil looked dripping down his wrist. She can, though, see Lovett's face, screwed up and flushed, and she can hear the desperate noises he's making as he works himself open, breathy and helpless and quiet.

She yanks her own shorts down, and her panties, so she can push three fingers into herself. It feels like nothing, as useful to her as a breeze would be. A whine escapes her, and Lovett looks over, eyes widening. She wants to—to apologize? To beg him to let Jon fuck him already, please, so she can be next?

"Jon," Lovett says. "Now, you can—now—"

"We don't have any—" Jon says, and stumbles over the words "—condoms."

Lovett makes a noise of frustration, edging towards tears. "Jon, just," he says, and there's the wet noise of him pulling his fingers free. "Please, I—now, please—" and Emily says, " _Jon_ ," as gently as she can with three fingers pushed inside herself, curling up, and Jon lines up, hooks Lovett's leg over his hip, and slides in.

Emily can see their expressions. She's never going to think about anything else.

She _envies_ those looks, because it's instantly obvious this is what they needed, that this is the only thing that's going to work. The complete fucking satisfaction on their faces, like the desperate need is being sated, or could be. Emily wants that, fucking needs that. "You have to fuck me next," she says, can't keep herself from saying, and Jon makes a tortured sound and starts fucking into Lovett hard.

Lovett's rocking with him, fingers clawed into Jon's back, and Emily thinks the visual of this is helping her more than the fingers in her pussy, somehow.

Lovett starts gasping, head tipped back, agonized in a way that looks so _good_ , the kind of sex that you really fucking need, a relief so intense it hurts. Emily crooks her fingers, gets her other hand involved and rubs at her clit, hard circles, trying so hard to make it better, better.

Jon looks incredible, long body and strong back, hips snapping into Lovett the way Emily _knows_ , the way that hits her just right, the way that made her scream once, in a hotel in Boston, and then they'd had to explain to housekeeping that everything was fine. Jon ducks his head, presses his face into Lovett's neck, mumbling something Emily can't hear.

“Yeah,” Lovett says, just audible, a gasping, pleased word. Then, with a sudden wide-eyed look at Emily, “Wait, no—you can’t—“

Emily isn’t following any of this, but she knows that half-breath, that squeeze-down-grind of Jon’s hips. Jon’s coming.

For a split second it’s just _hot_ —there’s no condom, he’s filling Lovett up, and his body looks amazing like this, tensed from head to toe. Then, suddenly, she gets it.

"Jon," she says, and can't quite keep the desperation out of her voice. "Jon, did you..." and Jon is burying his face in Lovett's neck, nodding miserably.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, just loud enough for her to hear, still deep inside Lovett. "Em—Lovett—"

It hits her when Lovett looks up at her again, face all the way back to desperate. Jon’s come— _Jon_ looks finally fucking sated, the way they’re all scrabbling for—but Lovett—

“We’ll—we’ll get on Grindr for you,” Emily says, weakly. “We can find someone to help.” Even as she’s saying it she knows it’s not a real option: to poison someone else, to _wait_. Putting off fucking just to try to talk feels like it might kill her.

Lovett knows just as well as she does that they’re out of options. He shakes his head. “Emily, we _have_ to.”

“I’ll turn over,” Emily says, weakly. “You don’t have to look at me. You can shut your eyes.”

Even though Jon is still inside him, Lovett is starting to look restless again, losing the air of relief he'd managed while Jon was fucking him properly. "You don't have to do that," Lovett says. "Don't—if we're doing this, I need to be able to see you're—see it's okay."

“I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be good on my end,” Emily says, and feels hot across her face. “No more talking, just—please, this is fucking killing me.”

Lovett scrambles out from under Jon, and Emily catches Jon’s gaze. There’s nothing in his face except worry for her; nothing in it that makes her pause in pushing close to Lovett and kissing the corner of his mouth.

Lovett's mouth is soft, and he leans into her, kisses the corner of her mouth too. His hands are careful on her arms, even though she can feel them both shaking, trembling with need.

She can feel him hard against her, too, and it’s impossible not to shove up against him, wanting friction even though it won’t be enough. “Please just—if we’re going to—don’t make me wait anymore,” Emily mutters into Lovett’s jaw, and he nods, turns her back toward the couch.

They're both already bare from the waist, and it's beyond strange to be lying like this with someone and not reach for their cock, not to stroke it and feel it in her hand, not to rub against them. Lovett is frowning, but it looks like concentration, and Emily's heart is beating hard in her chest not just from the frantif building need but from the gentle way Lovett touches her leg when she opens her thighs, the way Jon is watching them, open-mouthed.

“Just—you can just,” she says, and loses the words. She needs it so fucking much and she’s frozen for how to make it happen.

Like a miracle, Jon’s hand appears, squeezing between them, grasping Lovett’s cock with his knuckles against Emily’s thigh. “Like this,” he says, and guides Lovett into her.

Through the haze of feeling, of finally, _finally_ being filled up, through her own gasping, Emily can hear the sound Lovett makes as he pushes inside her. It's small, shocked; it's fucking gorgeous, and when she can speak again, she'll tell him.

"Like that, Lovett," Jon is saying. "That's good."

It’s like she was half-starved and she’s now eating steak and potatoes; every tiny movement is exactly what her body is desperately craving. “ _Yes_ ,” she manages, barely voiced.

Lovett is fully inside her, bracing himself over her on the couch. "Em," he manages, and she lifts her legs, locks her ankles around his back.

"Thank you," she says, "Lovett, oh my god."

“Yeah,” he says, and presses his forehead into hers, his eyes open and unfocused. “Fuck, I can’t—forever, can you—“

She only catches his meaning because of the way Jon’s hand, still between their bellies, slides down to find her clit. What had felt like nothing, fruitless and aching, a minute ago is suddenly everything she needs. She clenches around Lovett, feeling the certainty that she’ll finally, _finally_ be able to come, as long as he keeps fucking her.

"Oh god," she groans, tipping her head back. "Oh god, Lovett, that's—"

"Yeah," Lovett manages, tightly. "Yeah, c'mon, Em, you got this, c'mon, you need—let me help, c'mon—"

He’s giving it to her so good, hips working, and he leans in and bites the side of her neck, under her ear where she’s sensitive. Jon’s fingers speed up, and that’s it, that’s everything she needed, she’s gasping and clutching at Lovett and coming on his cock.

"Oh fuck," Lovett groans. "Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ , that's—" and Jon is still rubbing her clit, so good, so much, and Emily comes again, shuddering, clutching at Lovett's shoulders, losing her words, her voice. "That—you just, uh, again, right?"

Emily nods, shivering, Jon's fingers slowing on her. "Jon," she croaks, "Jon, Lovett needs—" and Jon slides his hand down, strokes just where she and Lovett are joined, and Lovett makes a sound like a sob, urgent. "Lovett," Emily says, clutching at him. "Your turn, you can, you can now."

He tucks his face farther into her neck, shaking, says, “Jon—Em—“ His whole body is shuddering with need, and she reaches up to thread her fingers through his hair and pull him in close.

He bites down again, artless this time, as he comes, and she feels the throb of him, or imagines it so vividly she might as well have felt it.

"That's it," she tells him, as he keeps shuddering. "That's it, Lovett, that's it, you're so good," and he shudders harder, tucks his face into her neck. She runs her fingers through his hair, feels Jon lean over him, kiss his shoulder tentatively. "So good," she says again, because it seemed to help. "Thank you, you were amazing."

He pulls out of her, and then flops off of her, as much as he can on the narrow couch. She shifts so he can wedge against the back of it, and his free arm comes up, hand across his face. He doesn’t look upset, exactly, but it’s hard for Emily to tell from this angle.

“Jon,” Emily says, softly. “Can you grab everyone’s clothes?”

Jon gathers up their things, hands Emily hers. She uses the underwear to wipe herself off, making a face, and wriggles back into her shorts. Jon is pulling his jeans back on in her peripheral vision, and Lovett—Lovett hasn't moved yet, just pulled his sweats over himself, curled away. Emily wants to reach out and touch him, ask if he's okay, but she doesn't know if—if she'd be welcome right now.

As soon as Emily’s dressed, Jon gathers her up in his arms, squeezes her tight. “What the fuck,” he mutters, and she almost laughs. Lovett, in her periphery, is finally pulling his sweats on, eyes on the floor.

"I'll just," he says, waving a hand vaguely at the door. "I'll get out of your hair."

"No," Emily says, emphatic, just at the same time as Jon, and Lovett looks up, startled. She tries to regroup. She just—she can't stand the thought of them all splitting up right now, and not just because they still have no idea what's going on, what the long-term effects are. "I mean, shouldn't we, uh, stick together? In case—we don't know what's going on."

“Also, not to creep anyone out, but what if it’s—something in the house?” Jon says. “That’s all I could think about once, uh. My head cleared.”

“I don’t think—“ Lovett starts, but Emily says, “We don’t have to go far, but let’s just—Lovett, can we go to yours? Please.”

It takes a second, but Lovett says, "Sure, that sounds—sure."

Jon's arms tighten around her, and Emily appreciates it. It feels steadying, reassuring. She tucks herself closer against him. Lovett, standing apart, looks a little alone.

They call the dogs and cross the street as a group, nervously watching for other pedestrians. The streets are empty. Emily thinks, for a moment, about checking twitter, realizes they’ve left their phones behind. Now she _knows_ this has shaken them all.

When they get inside, none of them really know what to do. It's not like any of them have prior experience to fall back on for this, or any sort of guide. It's late, and it feels it, dark outside and the dogs drooping with sleep, and Emily thinks maybe that's the way to go. "We should get some rest."

Jon hesitates. “Shouldn’t we—talk?”

“In the morning,” Emily tells him, shaking her head and pulling him in closer against her side.

“Or never,” Lovett suggests, focusing on lining all of their shoes up against the wall. “Never’s good with me.”

Emily knows Lovett's house almost as well as she knows her own, knows where the blankets are, knows how to make room for two people to sleep on his couch and why the spare bedroom doesn't have a bed in it. She doesn't want to leave Lovett alone, not at all, but she doesn't want to push anything by assuming otherwise. She wants to give him the amount of space he needs, but she doesn't know how much that is.

She goes to get the blankets, first. It feels weird to be alone—weirder to be leaving Jon and Lovett alone, although they probably need to talk the most. Undoubtedly won't, but need to. "Thanks for letting us stay over," she tells Lovett as she comes back in, and nudges Jon towards the couch, hoping to signal to Lovett that he doesn't have to actively host, if he needs to get away.

He stands there for a moment, and Emily's keenly aware that he's watching as she and Jon shuffle onto the couch, Jon fussing with the blanket, forehead creased. In another room, Pundit barks, sleepily, and Lovett seems to shake himself. "Uh," he says. "I'll just—go."

"Wake us up if you need us—I mean, if you need anything from us—I mean, uh," Jon says, and then just makes a face and stops talking.

Lovett, thank goodness, just nods and leaves the room, Pundit trailing at his heels.

When it's the two of them, in the dark, Emily is free to tuck her face into Jon's neck and let herself cling the way she wants to, let herself close her eyes and shake for a moment, overwhelmed. She's still sticky in her shorts, and Jon's mouth is still pink from kissing. From kissing, _Lovett_. She hears Lovett's bedroom door close.

"Weird night," she tells Jon, quietly. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Do you think Lovett is?"

She shakes her head, tucks in a little closer. "Doesn't seem like it."

Jon holds her a little tighter. "He'll—we'll talk about it," he says, and Emily can almost hear her own voice in it, echoes of all the times she's taught him to talk things out when they get tricky, emotionally. "The three of us."

"Yeah," Emily agrees. "Did he say anything to you when I went to get blankets?"

Jon just snorts. "I think he was busy trying to blend into the wallpaper." He pauses, says more soberly, "Which isn't exactly like Lovett, so."

"Yeah," Emily says. "Shit." She can't fix that tonight, though. "Seriously, though, you're okay? You—that was, you know. A whole new, um. Experience, for you."

It's Jon's turn to hide his face. Emily rubs his back, waiting him wait. He gets there in his own time, she's learned. "I liked it," he says, quietly.

"Okay," she says. "That's good. Better than the alternative, for sure."

"Did you—I mean. Lovett. Did you ... like it?"

Emily swallows. It's okay, she reminds herself. It's just her Jon. "Yes," she says, and has to pull the blanket up around herself even though she's warm enough. "I liked—you and him, too. That was—that was really fucking hot. Is that okay?" 

“Uh—“ Jon laughs softly, tickling near the part of her hair. “Yeah? Yes. Sure. I mean—that’s better than you being, uh, scarred by the sight.”

He's so broad and warm and wrapped around her, and he smells so good, familiar and hers. "You've been thinking about it," she says, not a question. "Before tonight, I mean."

He's quiet for a long moment, then says, "Not—not ever in a way that means anything about you and me. Not ever about anything that isn't—that’s without you."

He's so earnest, always, in a way that tugs at her heart, has done since she met him and he smiled at her, sheepish and gap-toothed and handsome. "Jon," she says, and has to kiss him for it.

They're both exhausted; she can feel it in him almost as clearly as in herself, just from the cadence of his words and the heaviness of his arm over her. But she's wired, too, not ready to fall asleep yet. "Do you think—whatever it was, do you think it ... knew?" She knows the question is a little ridiculous, but everything that happened tonight was pretty ridiculous. It sure wasn't biology as she understands it.

Jon's quiet for a second. "Maybe," he says. "I don't know." Emily kisses him again, gentle.

"I love you," she says. "So much."

"I love you," Jon tells her, seriously, nuzzling into her. She can feel him breathing against her, the two of them lying together in the dark. Then, quietly, he asks, "And you love—you love Lovett too?"

"Obviously," she says, and then sucks in a breath. "But like—I mean. I don't know. I could. It's not like it's been on the table. It's not like I think it's on the table _now_ —I can't stop thinking, you know, he must—" She chokes on the words, stops to swallow and regroup, Jon stroking her side through her shirt. "Of all of us, he's the one who—who didn't—who would never have—"

She runs out of words, her breath going funny. Cowardly, she's glad it's dark.

Jon keeps stroking her side, rucks up her shirt so his palm is warm against her skin, grounding. "He would have said no, Em," he says, quietly. "Even then, if he didn't—" it's Jon's turn to regroup. "Lovett loves you," he says. "Even if he doesn't want... that outside of whatever the fuck just happened, that doesn't change."

Emily feels selfish and hot and afraid, afraid they've broken something. "What if it does?"

Jon kisses her temple, her hair. "It's Lovett, baby. He's not going to—he's practically married to us, too. That's not going to change. We'll make sure he gets whatever he needs, we'll talk it out. We'll go to couples counselling or something, if we have to. Okay?"

She huffs, half a laugh and half a sigh. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks." She's not soothed, not really, but it's not like there's any help for it, until she can see Lovett again and find out how he's doing.

They curl up together, listening to the dogs snuffling around in the kitchen. Jon keeps stroking her side, and Emily runs her fingers through his hair, the way he likes, the way that makes him looser, easier.

"It's going to be okay," Jon whispers, and kisses her head, and then, in the background, Emily can hear something else.

If the house weren't still, 2AM-quiet, she's sure she wouldn't have heard it. If Lovett's bedroom weren't right around the corner. If Lovett actually closed his door, ever, instead of stashing his hamper in front of it.

She wants to misinterpret. She wants to believe he's laughing—on his laptop, maybe, watching something cheery.

He's not, though.

She nudges Jon. "Do you hear that?"

She can tell when he does because he goes still in her arms. "Is he..."

Emily nods against him. There's a lump building in her throat the more she listens, the more the Lovett's stifled, miserable sounds drift through to them. She can't bear it, Lovett just a room away, hurting. "Should we... go to him?"

"He might not want—" Jon says, and then shakes his head. "Yeah. Of course we should."

Leo follows close behind them as they get up and walk towards Lovett's bedroom. The crying abruptly stops as their footfalls sound in the hallway, and when Emily leans her head in, Lovett's got a pillow pressed into his face. His chest is still heaving, just visible in the streetlamp light from the window and the dull glow of charging cord indicator lights.

" _Lovett_ ," she says, feeling like it falls out of her, horrified even though she knew what she was going to see, "Lovett, hey," and she goes over to the bed, Jon following fast.

Lovett doesn't react when she knees onto the bed, even though he must feel it, must hear them, so she just keeps going, up and nearly on top of him, squeezing him close. "Hey, it's okay, you're okay," she says, thinking _god, I hope you're okay. I hope we're okay._

She feels the bed dip on Lovett's other side: Jon, clambering up too. "Lovett," he's saying, as well, pained. He never can stand seeing someone hurting, especially not one of his own people—and Lovett is definitely one of his people.

Emily curls up to Lovett, holding him tight, watching his chest rise and fall unsteadily, like he's trying to keep quiet. "It's okay," she says, again, hoping beyond hope. "You don't have to hide anything." She knows that's true for her; has no idea if it's what Lovett needs to hear. 

Lovett wriggles between them. She thinks he might be trying to get out, to get away, but then he's just flopping onto his belly, his arms around his head, pillow pushed away. His breathing is still hitching, and she smooths a hand in circles across his back, says, "it's okay," over and over, trying to make it real.

Even in the dim light, Jon looks distraught. He puts his hand on Lovett's shoulder, follows Emily's lead. Lovett shudders, and tucks his face further into his arms, but—he stays where he is. He stays with them. Emily hopes to god that's a good sign.

She wants to kiss his shoulder. Before—this, she would have done, would have got as close as she could, held him as tight as she could. She didn't notice when they crossed that boundary in their relationship, the one between casual and unfettered comfort, but they're here, Emily able to hold Lovett when he's snapped at everyone else. Or else, she could, before.

She takes a deep breath and just presses her face into his shoulder, instead. Lovett's body is calming. Her sentences are turning into whispers, half-voiced. Jon's still tense—she can feel it from here—but he's evening out, too.

She lets her eyes slide shut.

***

She blinks awake, fuzzy and not immediately sure where she is, some time later. The sun is up, at least, and when she takes a second to reorient herself, Leo has his paws up on the edge of the bed, staring at her mournfully. He needs out, then, which she can do—and then when she sits up, she dislodges someone's arm from across her middle, and when she turns to see if she's woken Jon, it isn't Jon at all, but Lovett.

"Hey," she whispers, and shoots a gentle smile at him. "Help me take the dogs out?"

He looks—she doesn't know. She can't read him, right now. But he climbs off when she does, careful of Jon, and clucks his tongue at Pundit, leading Emily and both dogs toward the back door.

The dogs bound gratefully outside as soon as Lovett opens the door, and Emily leans in the doorway and watches them for a second, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on her face. Lovett waits next to her, still uncharacteristically silent.

It's going to be on her to break the quiet, she knows.

"So last night was pretty—weird," she says, and holds back a wince. "But you know Jon and I are—you're our best friend. No matter what. You know that, right?"

He's still staring at the dogs, but at least he's listening. At least he's there. "I hope, um. I hope you feel the same way."

Lovett makes a half-sound, almost a laugh.

She waits him out, watching the dogs roll over each other at the end of the yard. Eventually Lovett takes a breath, not looking at her, and says, "Yeah, I know that."

Which is—not an answer, not really.

She tries a different tack. "I'm sorry you had to—um. It didn't seem like I could wait for Jon to be able to, uh, again. It felt—well, you know how it felt." Her face is burning. "I'm sorry about all of it. I mean, not—it's not like I had any, um, control over it, really, but I'm still—I'm sorry you had to do stuff you'd never normally—yeah."

That gets Lovett to turn towards her. He's still looking at the ground, frowning, but he never looks at anyone when he's working through a train of thought. "No," he says, "Em, I—I couldn't _leave_ you like that."

“Well—okay, yeah.” She sees his point. She couldn’t have left him like that, even if their roles had been reversed. “I mean—I guess I mean thank you. For, you know. Helping, even though it can’t have been, um.” She can’t finish the sentence. Obviously it _was_ adequately good for him, under the pull of whatever it was. “Been anything you’d ever want, uninfluenced. I mean.”

"That's not—I don't _not_ want—" he breaks off, frustrated, and finally looks her in the eye. "You can't be mad, okay?"

She doesn't pause. "I won't. Christ, Lovett, we all went through some crazy shit yesterday. Nothing you want to say is going to upset me." She hopes that's as true as it feels. Sometimes Lovett can really surprise her.

"I—it's not that I don't want you two," he says, and he's flushing all up his cheeks, a dull dark colour she barely ever sees on him. "It's, uh. More the opposite."

Emily's talking before she's even done processing; she knows, she _knows_ she should take a moment, but this is too holy-fucking-shit not to jump for it. "You—we, too—those aren't words, that's—me too, Jon too, holy shit, Lovett—please don't be fucking kidding, please don't be fucking with me right now—"

Lovett makes another of those half-laugh sounds, fidgeting with nothing. "I'm really really not kidding."

Emily feels a bit like she can't breathe. She wants to grab for Lovett's hand, wants to haul him in and hold onto him and know he's there, breathe him in and feel him in her arms, wants Jon to be here too. That's— "Jon," she says. "We have to—Jon too, fuck, we have to get Jon."

Lovett's yard is securely fenced; the dogs can stay out here in the breeze for a while, with Pundit's water fountain going gangbusters in the corner of the deck. "Lovett," she says, trying to sound less needy than she feels. "Come back inside?"

"If that's a euphemism—" Lovett says, and there's a laugh in it, real Lovett coming back to himself. _Her_ Lovett, lively and funny and, god, flirting with her.

"It could be a euphemism," she says, and watches Lovett's lovely funny mouth quirk up, real and true.

Emily almost has to stop herself from running back to the bedroom, can't stop herself bursting through the door, making enough noise that Jon, sleep-rumpled, sits up in the bed.

"Whassit," he says, rubbing his eyes, and then sees her, and Lovett behind her, hesitant but there, and looks suddenly completely awake.

"Hey, babe," Emily says. "Think you can live without coffee or breakfast for a while?"

"Uh—sure," Jon says. His gaze is darting between them, and Emily doesn't think he gets it until she climbs onto the bed and pulls him into a kiss.

Maybe after that, actually, when she turns back to where Lovett's still hovering in the doorway and says, "Your turn, Lovett."

"Just like that?" Lovett says, but he's joking, he's clearly joking, and he's coming forwards to the bed. Jon is watching him like he can't believe it, like he's not letting himself believe it until it happens. "Is that how it's going to be? You say _jump_ and we—"

"Yes," Emily interrupts, watching the way his eyes keep dropping to Jon's mouth, the way Jon's breathing has picked up. She feels like she's spinning, tumbling, giddy and wondering. "Jump."

Lovett mumbles, "How high?" but he's leaning in, and Jon's moving forward onto his knees to make it easy for Lovett, to keep him from having to strain.

They look fucking gorgeous together. Better than yesterday—not even comparable to yesterday, because this is something else entirely. This is them kissing because they want to. This is them kissing to find out what kissing each other will be like.

Jon reaches up—reaches up, Jesus, because like this, Lovett just has the edge on height—and cups Lovett's cheek, and Lovett makes this soft, soft sound, and leans into it.

They kiss for long moments, and then Jon breaks off, staring at Lovett. “This is, uh. A pretty good dream I’m having.”

It’s partly a question, and partly, she thinks, some kind of reassurance for Lovett. Gentle and thoughtful. She loves him so much.

Lovett is breathing kind of roughly; he's turned on, Emily thinks, not the frantic, out of body kind from the day before, but real and personal, entirely their own. "Is it, uh, better or worse if it's not a dream?" Lovett says, not quite landing the joking inflection, and Jon's shoulders drop with relief.

He says, "So fucking much better," and leans in to kiss Lovett again.

Emily thinks about getting comfortable, lazy, just watching them make out. But she can _touch_ now, and that’s motivating as hell. She slides off the bed and goes up behind Lovett, runs her hands up His back, under his shirt. He shivers, pulling away from Jon for a moment and then diving back in. She takes that as permission.

Lovett is a different shape to her husband, shorter, more compact, and he leans back against her as she runs her hands over him, over his belly, his ticklish sides. She stays clear of his chest, in case; stays clear of his waistband, just touches him everywhere else, dizzy with permission.

She wants to kiss him, too. She wants him to want to kiss her, to want to turn into her touch and touch her back, maybe. He’d said “you two”—or had it been you, too? Either way, it had seemed promising. It seems promising.

Emily’s never been great at waiting when the other option is to announce an expectation so it can be fulfilled. “Lovett, you should kiss me now,” she says, and they break apart, Lovett craning his head around to see her.

He's flushed, mouth pink and wet from kissing Jon, and his glasses have smudged down the side of one lens. "Is that okay?" Emily asks, suddenly unsure, and Lovett's face goes fond, happy.

"Yeah, it's—yeah," he says, and then, "You have to move, though. My back doesn't do this whole—I'm not an owl, you know."

She grins, knees onto the bed next to Jon. "Sometimes when you're in your glasses I get confused," she tells him, just to see him laugh.

Still, she hesitates before she leans in, Jon's arm coming up around her waist to keep her steady. "Whatever—whatever you're okay with," she says. "Okay?" and Lovett says, "Okay," and—and kisses her.

She’s never lingered on what it would be like to kiss Lovett. It’s not her kind of daydream. To fuck Lovett, maybe, a few times, but this is all-new territory.

It’s _good_. Lovett’s turned on, from kissing Jon probably, but the hard-on against her hip still gives her a smug jolt. He _wants_ them.

He wants Jon, definitely, and he wants her too, at least as much as this, the pair of them kissing on his bed, her hands settling on his shoulders for balance. Maybe he doesn't want to fuck her again; maybe he needs something else. Whatever it is, whatever they can be, they'll find it.

"Jesus," Jon whispers, by their side. "Oh fuck."

Emily smiles, losing the rhythm of the kiss. “Jon’s into it,” she tells Lovett, not quite a whisper but still just for them, a sly grin between them. “We’re getting him hot.”

Lovett runs a hand down her back, and then onto the curve of her ass with a firm squeeze, and she yelps delightedly.

"Did Lovett—" Jon says, voice cracking with surprise, and Emily giggles, leans into him more so he has to take her weight.

"Lovett did," she says, and watches the smug pride wash over Lovett's face as Jon swears again, appreciative.

Jon says, voice thick, “If you want to—touch—that’s, um. That would be hot.” He gestures towards Emily, as though his meaning needed the emphasis.

“I think I already am,” Lovett tells him, but he squeezes again, and runs his other hand up Emily’s side until his fingertips are grazing the curve of her breast. Emily’s breath catches.

Lovett is looking at his hand on her side with curiosity, head tilted. His hands are smaller than Jon's, and his touch is lighter, more cautious.

Emily isn't wearing a bra, and every time she breathes, Lovett's fingertips brush just against her breast. Jon is watching. He likes it just as much as she does.

"Here goes the gold star," Lovett says, half under his breath, and then he strokes his hand the rest of the way up, cupping her breast in one warm hand through her shirt. He just feels the weight of it for a minute, from what Emily can tell, but then he strokes a tentative thumb across her nipple.

She sucks a breath in. "That's nice," she says, encouraging him. He does it again.

She's got small tits, but the way Lovett's looking at her, biting his lip, she may as well have had a whole puzzle set there. He strokes her nipple again, slower, worrying his lower lip, and it's his concentration as much as the touch that makes her shiver, hot and good.

"Good?" Lovett asks, looking up at her, and she nods.

"Good," she says, a little hoarsely.

"I," Lovett says, "—I don't know how much I can—what I—" and Emily says, "It's okay, it's all okay," with as much sincerity as she feels, all of it welling up out of her.

Lovett's hand is still cupping her breast and she has to fight not to shiver again. Jon is so still beside them that she knows he's really turned on: he only gets that still when he's trying to hide it, or fight it.

“Can I touch you?” Emily asks Lovett. “Can Jon and I touch you?”

He swallows, looks at Jon. Looks at her. “Yeah. Yeah, you can—I’ll tell you if it’s ... weird.” He looks down at his hand. “It’s currently, uh. Weirdly not weird.”

That seems to be all Jon needs: he shifts on the bed so he can reach Lovett, running his hand up under Lovett's rumpled t-shirt. Lovett sucks in a breath, and his fingers flex against Emily. She gasps, and Jon groans, and it's all a feedback loop, thrumming between them.

Emily leans in to kiss Lovett again and strokes her hands down his thighs through the thin material of his sweats. It dislodges his hand from her, but that’s okay; she’s focused on him right now, on making him glad they’re all here together.

She brings her hands back up on the outsides of his thighs, then thinks, _well, he did, so—_ and reaches around to squeeze his ass.

Lovett squeaks, which is as adorable as it is hot, and then tucks his face into the curve of Emily's neck. "I don't, uh, usually," he says, waving a hand. "That's not the usual, uh, sound to expect."

“Is there a usual sound? Can we get a demonstration?” Emily asks, letting the joke of it be clear in her voice. “Is it like a—“ she puts on her best baritone “—UGH, UGH kind of grunting thing?”

Jon, behind Lovett, cracks up. “Our old neighbour sounded like that,” he interprets for Lovett. “Through the wall. Very distinctive.”

"I'm distinctive," Lovett says, clearly just instinctively, and then laughs into Emily's neck, tickling against her skin. "You know what I—oh _fuck_ —" and Emily cranes round to see Jon dipping his fingers just slightly under the waist of Lovett's sweats.

“I guess,” Emily says. “Want to hear it all again, though.”

Lovett nods, shaky. “Uh, not gonna be a problem if you’re both groping me.”

“Hey,” Jon says, voice sunny. “I have not yet begun to grope.”

"Any time," Lovett says. "Feel free to, you know, get on that. Your wife's really getting with the picture here, you know, you might want to—" and Jon, laughing, slides his hands down the back of Lovett's sweats, cups his ass.

Lovett’s chin lifts, baring his throat, and Emily ducks in to bite down it. When she switches her attention to the side of his neck, Lovett buries a hand in her hair, holding her gently in place. That’s more than clear enough for her, and she keeps her attention focused on teasing him.

Something bumps her hip, and she looks down to see Jon’s hand, still inside Lovett’s sweats, cupping Lovett’s cock. “Oh, yeah,” Emily says, and Jon laughs.

"Yeah," Lovett says, his voice going unsteady. "Yeah, that's a—we can do that, you can—" and Emily feels Jon's hand move, slow, just palming Lovett's dick. Lovett wobbles, and reaches out to steady himself on Emily. "Can we—I need—" he says, and then gets it together. "Let a man lie down, Favreaus, come on."

“It’s so much easier to touch you like this,” Emily complains, but she’s already shifting for him, making room in the center of the bed.

Lovett, on his back in a big bed—yeah, Emily could get used to this. She strokes up under his shirt, feeling out his chest, staying away from his nipples. “Going to bite you here,” she says, tapping on his belly. “Unless that’s not as good as your neck?”

“Uh, no objections,” Lovett tells her, voice breaking in the middle as Jon gets back to what he was doing.

Lovett's belly is soft, shivering under her hands, although whether that's at her touch or at Jon's hand on his dick, she can't say. She kisses him there once, a press of her mouth, and then bites, wanting to see the proof of it, proof of Lovett wanting them.

Lovett’s squirming again, but his hand is in her hair again too, holding her where she is. Normally Emily likes to do the holding in place, but she’ll take this clear acknowledgement that Lovett wants her to stay where she is.

Jon, on Lovett’s other side, starts working Lovett’s sweats off of him.

Emily only pulls off to let Lovett lift his hips, let Jon get his sweats off. She can see the bulge of Lovett's dick in his soft-looking underwear, and says, "Those too, Jon."

“Not gonna try out the quick-draw fly?” Lovett asks, and Emily laughs.

“Jon’s got those too, we’re pretty familiar with the concept. They keep sending boxes over.”

“May never have to buy briefs again,” Jon agrees, peeling Lovett’s off.

And then—and then Lovett is bare from his waist, thick thighs and the curve of his belly and his _dick_ , hard and flushed and just _there_ for them to look at. Emily meets Jon's eye; he looks almost dazed with arousal.

Jon looks up after a second, at Lovett. "Would it be boring and repetitive if I wanted to suck you again?"

Lovett chokes on a laugh. "Uh, no, you can definitely—that's definitely my kind of repetition. My kind of rut. My kind of call-back. My—" Lovett cuts off, because Jon's dipped his head down to run his lips up the length of Lovett's cock. Emily sucks in a breath, watching. It's so much better than last night; now, when she squeezes her thighs, she feels actual impending relief. Now, Lovett looks blissful, not frustrated.

Jon is so good with his mouth, so eager to please. The only fault with him eating Emily out is that she can't _watch_ , can't lie back and enjoy it at the same time as watching Jon work, watching the muscles in his back move, watching what she can see of his face scrunch up with pleasure. This way—this way she can see everything, the way Jon's eyes flutter closed as he mouths up Lovett's cock, and, more than that, she gets to watch Lovett take it, visibly trying to stay still, mouth dropping open.

"Do you like his mouth?" Emily asks, and watches Lovett's chest hitch.

“Ye—yes,” he says, eventually.

“Me, too,” Emily says. “He’s so thorough, isn’t he?”

Jon groans, and then he’s mouthing more aggressively, needy, pulling Lovett’s cock up until he can get the head of it in his mouth. Emily can almost feel it on her own tongue, watching; she knows how it feels, how arousal must be spiking through Jon’s belly.

"He hasn't done this before, you know?" Emily says, and Lovett moans, twitching on the bed. "Yeah," Emily adds, before Lovett can feel self-conscious, and Lovett echoes her: "Yeah, it's so—it's so hot, fuck."

"You and I can give him, like. Tips and tricks," she says, sort of kidding, but sort of wanting to feel connected to Lovett, right now. They've got these things in common: they give blowjobs; they love Jon; Jon loves to go down on them.

"Does he—take instruction well?" Lovett says, almost steadily. Emily runs her hand over his belly, his chest, the places he's liked, wanting to touch, be connected.

"So well," she says, and it's Jon's turn to moan.

She thinks about it, then says, reckless, “That’s kind of our thing. Not everything, but—a lot of the time.”

“I, uh. Had a feeling,” Lovett says. His hand finds her hip, settling there comfortably. She could get used to the ease of that touch. “Czarina.”

"You know it," she says, and Lovett laughs, peeking up at her. He looks—well, he looks like someone getting blown, stomach muscles tensing slightly, a flush crawling up his neck, but he looks _happy_ , like someone who's getting something he never thought he could.

"Would the Czarina deign to, uh—" He pauses, face going tight, hips moving just a little despite how tensely he's holding them still. "Uh, kiss me again?"

Emily can definitely do that.

She leans over, purposefully ignoring Jon in a way she knows he'll like, and cups his cheek. He's warm to the touch, and smiles softly up at her even as his breath catches again. "Hi," she says, nonsensically, and kisses him.

He’s artless now, or almost; he’s kissing her for himself, for the sensation and the pleasure of it. She likes it. Like this, she can just focus on making him like it more. She bites him; she runs the point of his tongue across his lip, and then up the middle of it. He shivers at that, and she does it again, Lovett clinging to her sides.

She can hear the wet sounds of Jon sucking him off, breathy and rhythmic, and she shifts so she can card a hand through Lovett's unruly curls, tangle her fingers fully and sweetly in his hair. She doesn't pull, not yet, but she tightens her grip to suggest it, relishes it when Lovett makes a soft noise, almost a whimper, and loses the thread of their kiss.

There's a part of her that wants, more than anything, to pause all of the action and try to figure out what all of this _means_ , where it's headed. Whether Lovett wants some threesomes, or whether he wants to be with them.

There's a larger part of her that's starting to be desperate to get off, and she gets a hand down so she can at least grind against the heel of it while they're making out. She'd like to grind on Lovett's thigh, if he'd let her, if Jon's head wasn't in the way. She'd like to make his body work for her, like that.

For now, she can make his body work in other ways: she tugs just slightly on his hair, fastening her fingers around his curls, and he bucks up enough that Jon has to pull back, gasping.

"Sorry," Lovett is saying, going redder, and Emily says, decisively, "No, babe, that was hot."

“Yeah,” Jon agrees, and Emily can hear all of it in his voice—the grit from giving the blowjob, the arousal, the hint of headspace looseness.

“You guys are gonna kill me,” Lovett says, sounding overall pleased about the prospect. “Can we—Jon, you should come up here and fuck me. Instead.”

Jon shudders; Emily can see it ripple over him. "You—yeah?"

Lovett's chest is heaving. Emily is impressed that he's asked for something; that he hasn't come. Another time, she wants to see him come on her husband's face.

“Yeah, fucking—I have actual lube in my house, so—“

“We have lube,” Emily interjects, tugging on his hair a little more. “Just not in the living room.”

She can see on Lovett’s face the moment where he thinks about asking why straight people need lube. She lets it go; they can talk later about his assumptions. Right now, Jon’s going to fuck him.

"Where's yours?" she asks. "Jon can get it." Jon crawls up from between Lovett's legs, flushed all over. She can see him wanting to be given a task. "Tell him."

If this were a cartoon, Lovett’s eyes would be bugging out of his head. “My nightstand,” he says, and then, “I mean, the left nightstand. That one.”

There’s only one drawer; Jon crawls over to it and pokes around. He pulls out a couple of bottles, different brands, and Lovett plucks one out of his grasp. “This one’s better,” he says. “Um. Put the other one back.”

Jon does what he's told, the line of his shoulders relaxing. "Give Lovett the lube," Emily says, and he does, wide-eyed, smiling his gap-toothed smile. Lovett looks like he's been hit over the head, staring.

“Of the things I didn’t expect,” Lovett says, and then just shakes his head. “Fucking hell. Give me your hand, Jon.”

He drips lube over Jon’s fingers, not as generously as Emily would have. “Just, you know, go to town,” Lovett says, and Emily, knowing Jon appreciates clarity in direction, says, “Finger him, babe. Open him up for your cock.”

"Yeah," Jon breathes, and sits back on his hauches between Lovett's spread legs. It's a fucking gorgeous picture: Lovett, bare and laid out and waiting; Jon reaching out, lip between his teeth, long fingers rubbing slick at Lovett's hole.

"Fuck," Emily says, and has to grind down on her heel.

Jon’s careful, the way he is with Emily. But they don’t do this much, and Lovett did it literally eight or ten hours ago, so Emily’s not surprised when Lovett says, “You can go faster. I’d like to get your dick in me, like, before tomorrow.”

"Give him another finger, Jon," Emily says, her hand still in Lovett's hair. "I want to see you fuck him again."

Lovett makes this noise, a groan in his throat. "Em," he says, and any worry Emily could have started working on that she'd accidentally crossed a line vanishes at the way Lovett sounds, rough and wanting.

She rolls in and kisses him again, and can’t keep from laughing into his mouth at how absurd and wonderful this all is. “What’s so funny?” Lovett asks, and Jon tells him, “She’s just happy.” He knows all her tells, even through the soft haze of being not-quite under.

Emily runs a hand up Lovett’s chest, warm under her fingers, and this time she does go for a nipple, gentle, waiting for Lovett’s response.

He bucks up when she reaches it, trailing her fingers gently across it, giving him a chance to react. " _Ah_ ," he says, jerking. "I—oh—" and she can see him fighting to find his words, watches it playing out over his face.

"Okay?" she asks, to help, and he nods.

They’re both touching him, both making him move under their hands. Emily loves feeling like a team with Jon even about silly things, tiny things. Right now, with Lovett, is the best kind of teamwork.

Lovett squirms, legs moving restlessly. “Jon can—now’s good. I’m good.”

"Tell him," Emily says, keeping her fingers moving, soft, and Lovett squirms again. Emily can see a muscle jumping in his thigh.

"Jon," Lovett says, voice strained. "Jon, you can—"

"You can say it," Emily says, when he falters. "Let us hear you ask, Lovett." She's proud of how steady she sounds, proud of how it makes Lovett squinch his eyes close, looking the good kind of pained.

"F-fuck me," he says. "Jon. You—now.”

Jon certainly doesn’t need to be told twice. He glances at the nightstand for a moment, and Lovett says, “Little late to worry about that.”

Jon shakes his head, rueful, and climbs up, Emily moving enough to give him room. “Like this?” Jon asks, but he’s already pushing Lovett’s legs back. _Jon_ wants it like this—her Jon, who always wants the connection, even if it’s fleeting.

"Missionary again," Lovett says, but it's gentle; he's pulling his legs back to help, opening his thighs wider. "So straight."

Jon laughs, the way Lovett was clearly aiming for. "Sure," he says, fond, playing along, and then they both stop talking as Jon lines himself up, staring down at where they're joined.

Emily stares, too. Maybe she shouldn’t, but maybe—maybe this is right, that they’re all together right now, fixated on the way Lovett’s opening up for Jon.

Emily’s felt this. She knows exactly what it’s like to have Jon sink into her. He’s going in easy, today, Lovett relaxed and wanting and fully lucid. Emily can almost feel it, watching: how good that first push can be, what a relief to desperate need.

Jon pushes in, and Lovett's whole expression eases, screwing up at first to even out into breathless relief. "Lovett," Jon chokes, and Emily knows what he needs, says, "Lovett, tell him if it's good, he needs—"

"So good, Jon," Lovett manages. He sounds like it is, breathless, his cock jumping. "You need me to—it's good, you're good."

"Oh god," Jon says. "Oh _god_."

“Need a minute,” Lovett adds, “but then—you’re gonna need to fuck me with, like, zeal. With, uh, with enthusiasm. With—“

“He will,” Emily interrupts. Jon’s practically vibrating with the need to move, waiting for Lovett’s minute.

Later, she's going to tell Lovett that they do it like this sometimes, that she has Jon push inside her and wait until he can't bear it, until he's whining, arms trembling, begging to fuck her. She wants to see their faces when she tells them, the good hot shame on Jon's, the way Lovett might react.

Right now, she’s as anxious as Jon for Lovett to say, finally, “Now—not too fast, but you can go now—“

Jon doesn’t wait for interpretation, or for Emily’s say-so. They aren’t fully playing, anyway, and Emily’s content to watch him give Lovett what he wants. She can’t see between them as well as she wants, but she can hear Lovett’s breath catch, see him tilt up into the first smooth thrusts. Feel him wanting it.

Lovett doesn't say anything at first, just breathes, hips rocking up to meet Jon. The muscles in his stomach are jumping, and he reaches up to hang onto Jon's shoulders. He looks—he looks incredible; Emily can see how much he needs it, how good it feels.

“Make him come, Jon,” Emily says, and gets a hand down where she can rub against it, just enough to take the edge off. Everything about this is a better version of yesterday: still incredibly turned on, but in control. Still watching, but enjoying every minute of it.

She’s definitely getting Jon to eat her out after this—to fuck her, if he manages to hold off.

" _Fuck_ ," and Jon readjusts, taking his weight differently with a grunt, and gets a hand on Lovett's cock. Lovett makes a sharp noise, swearing, and—he's close, Emily realises, closer than she thought.

She puts her spare hand back in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp until he grunts. "You're so close," she tells Lovett, quietly, and his face screws up again as he nods, biting his lip.

“Let us get you off,” she tells him. “Jon’s fucking you so good, isn’t he?”

“Ye—yes,” Lovett gasps, and he’s losing his rhythm, hips writhing more than anything else. Jon isn’t; he’s driving into Lovett with the kind of steady strokes that make Emily squeeze down in remembered pleasure. 

She digs her nails in a little more, gets her fingers deeper in Lovett's mess of curls. He's panting, squirming on the bed, and if this is how needy he gets when this is new, when they're all finding their feet, Emily longs to see how desperate he can get when he's comfortable. Not like the night before, but the kind of desperate that Lovett chooses to give them, to trust them with.

She curls her fingers, and tugs. Lovett cries out, tensing up, and Jon tugs too, sloppy and hard around Lovett's dick, and Lovett gasps, urgent and unexpected, " _Em_ ," and Emily can't bear it, is desperate for it, pulls his hair again, and Lovett is coming, almost silent, pulsing over Jon's hand and onto his own pale, shuddering belly.

“God,” Emily says, and then, “Look how hard you made him come, baby, look how good you were—“

Jon chokes, hips stuttering. “Lovett, can he—does he need to stop?” Emily asks, and Lovett shakes his head, pulling against her grip. She relaxes it, tells Jon, “That’s it, sweetheart. Fill him up.”

"Em," Jon chokes, so different to Lovett and so good, so hot and dear and familiar. "Oh god, oh fuck," losing his words, losing his voice the way he does when she's driving him out of his mind. "Jon, you're so—you're so—"

Lovett cants his hips, urging him on. He wraps his arms around Jon's shoulders, tugs him down so Jon can bury his face in his neck. "So good," Lovett tells him, shaky, and Jon says, "Please," and Emily says, "Come in him, baby, come in him for us."

Jon makes a series of not-quite noises, breathy swallows mostly. Emily thinks about what she’d do in Lovett’s place: spank him, maybe, or run her nails down his back, or squeeze down on his cock. Maybe Lovett does the latter, because Jon suddenly sucks in a lungful of air, and then he’s coming, silent and shaking.

He almost collapses, then manages to pull out and roll more or less off of Lovett, panting on his back on the bed. He looks gorgeous like this, shiny with sweat and with some of Lovett’s come on him, with some of his own shining on his cock.

"Ugh," Lovett says, staring at him. "Look at you, that's obscene."

"I know," Emily says, with a touch of smugness, as they watch Jon's chest rise and fall. "Isn't he." She makes her tone a little sharper. "One minute, babe, and then I need you."

Lovett makes an amused noise. “I think that ship may have sailed, unless he’s got highly unusual powers of recuperation.”

Emily says, mildly, “I wasn’t talking about his dick, Lovett. His tongue’s still working fine.”

Lovett’s eyes fly open momentarily, and then he’s making a gruff throat-clearing noise. “Right, right. Glad there’s some, you know, variety in your repertoire.”

"He's good with his mouth," Emily says, and thinking about makes her ache, so wet now. "You know that."

"That is a thing I do now know," Lovett says. He makes the throat-clearing noise again, and doesn't quite manage to sell nonchalance. "Should I, uh, go?"

Emily fights the urge to grab his arm and not let him move.

She can imagine he doesn’t want to watch; whatever else they’ve done, that might be too much. But she wants to get off, and she wants Lovett to stay—both of them. She’s greedy.

She wants him to be able to handle this, somehow, so they can do stuff together again and it won’t just be him and Jon. There’s got to be a—

“Make out with me,” she tries, feeling reckless and a little wanton. “Stay and kiss me while Jon’s eating me out.”

"I—really?" Lovett says, and he turns his head on the pillow so he's looking at her, just at her. It feels quiet and close and special, like a sleepover, like something just for the two of them. "You want that?"

Emily nods, can feel her eyes stinging. Fuck, she's such an easy crier. She's not upset, she's just—Lovett looks so trusting, so.. quietly happy.

“Yeah,” she says, and then, cracking a grin, “You’re a great kisser, so—“

“I do love a compliment,” Lovett says, and leans in to kiss her, gently, just a little. “Should I move?”

“Jon can climb over,” she says. “Can’t you, babe?”

Jon doesn't have his breath back but he pushes himself up anyway, climbs over Lovett, still splayed out on his back. Emily shoves her shorts off, leaves her panties on. Jon can work around them if he has to, if Lovett doesn't want—she just doesn't want to lose anything. Lose this.

She tugs Lovett towards her, his body turning towards hers, his view blocked by the way she’s pulling him close to kiss. He can’t see anything, as long as he keeps kissing her. She can feel Jon settling in, breath on her thighs, the tease of it. She _needs_ it.

Jon’s mouth, even over her panties, is a jolt of electricity. She’s swollen under the thin cotton, and it feels like no barrier at all between her skin and the point of Jon’s tongue.

She pulls her mouth free just long enough to pant, " _Jon_ ," and Lovett kisses her again just as Jon tugs her panties to one side, licks her straight up, no teasing. She swears, and grabs hold of Lovett, instinctive.

Lovett laughs and kisses her jaw, her neck. “You keep having to wait,” he says. “Seems a little unfair.”

It felt fine a minute ago, but now she’s dying for it, for this and for more, for everything she can have. “Jon, need—your fingers,” she manages, and Lovett’s teeth scrape on her throat.

Jon is breathing hard, breath coming in hot pants against her, and she twists, needs more, needs to not be wearing— "Jon," she says, and he rips her panties, just like that: they're flimsy, and he's practiced, but it's searingly hot every time.

"Fuck," says Lovett, and Emily scrabbles for purchase, tugs him back to her mouth just as Jon slides two fingers into her easy as anything, and then she's coming, shaking and whining, clenching around Jon's knuckles.

"Again," she manages, when she's got her breath. "Keep going."

“Keep—“ Lovett says, brows furrowed, and starts to glance downward. Emily grabs him by the chin and yanks him back in, hand tight in his hair. She’s biting him too much, probably, but she needs his lip between her teeth almost as much as she needs Jon’s fingers to curl just—like—that, as she needs his tongue to—

"Yes," she chokes, as much for Jon as for herself, and then she's biting at Lovett's mouth again, holding him tight as Jon works her clit, his fingers long and steady inside her, and then—and then—oh _god_ , and she can go again, she can feel it, everything slick and urgent and immediate.

She feels like she could go forever, if she kept them both here, serving her. Like she could come and come and never get sore or exhausted. “Jon,” she murmurs.

“He’s good at it?” Lovett asks, like Emily hasn’t said _he’s good with his mouth_ a dozen times already. Maybe Lovett just likes to hear it.

"Yeah," Emily manages, squirming on Jon's fingers just to feel it. "So good, so fucking good. He loves it." Jon groans against her, and she clutches at Lovett again, frees a hand to reach down and tug at Jon's hair too, soft in the morning before he puts product in. "Lovett, tell him he's good," she manages. "Let me hear you."

“I’m not independently observing—“ Lovett starts, and then, before Emily can say anything, “He blew me so well, it was—he’s good with his mouth, yeah. He’s making you look, um, very satisfied.”

Emily laughs and tugs Lovett in again. She’s kissing him when Jon makes her come, rolling through her this time like a long wave.

It feels like it takes her a long time to come down from, and she gasps through it, clutching onto Lovett's arm, gripping Jon's hair. "Fuck, Em," Lovett breathes, and she's too distracted to understand his tone, but just his voice while she's coming is so much, in the best kind of way.

Jon bites her on the inside of the thigh, gentle; it’s a question more than anything else. She takes a couple of deep breaths and feels for the satiation instead of the next rise of need. “Yeah,” she tells him. “Come up here and cuddle.”

He climbs up, and then hesitates, looking between her and Lovett. She can see him trying to decide where to go, who to hold.

“Go spoon Lovett,” she says. “We should squish him and make him feel welcome.”

“It’s my house,” Lovett points out, but he doesn’t object to Jon settling in behind him. He’s still curled half on top of Emily, easy kissing range, and she presses one to the bridge of his nose and another to his hairline.

She can feel when Jon presses up behind him; Lovett goes softer against her, pressing his face against her shoulder. Jon loops his arm over Lovett's waist, his hand brushing Emily's bare side. She can hear him kiss Lovett's back, quietly. 

“We should probably bring the dogs in at some point,” Lovett says.

“Shh, snuggle time is quiet,” Emily says, only partly joking. “Just enjoy it.”

She can imagine Lovett’s brain spinning, looking for his next quip, but he actually shuts up, breath soft on her skin.

In a couple of minutes, Emily's going to put her shorts back on, and then they all have things to talk about. What they all want, concretely. If they get this for keeps. She curls closer into Lovett at the thought, hearing him murmur something at her, muffled.

“Hmm?” she says, and he repeats it: “I should get a mattress topper.”

Emily wiggles in place. “It’s not that bad.” Then, a beat later, she thinks _Lovett doesn’t always say what he means_ , and tries again.

“We’d want to come back no matter what your mattress is like. As long as you’re in it.”

Jon, bless him, murmurs a sleepy, “Yeah.”

Lovett laughs, warm against Emily's shoulder. "Is he always like this after—after?"

"Hey," Jon says, still sleepily, without reproach, just as Emily says, "Yeah, pretty much." It's like he uses up all his energy on coming, saves what he can for getting her off, and then crashes. "He'll be awake again in like twenty minutes," she tells Lovett, and—this is a thing he gets to know now, this is a thing he gets to experience. She wants him to know that.

“Twenty minutes of silent cuddling,” Lovett says, and hums like he’s weighing the prospect. “I may have to start keeping a sudoku book by the bed.”

She hears the moment he rethinks the joke, a tiny sucked-in breath. “I mean, not that—“

She interrupts him. “We’ll get one for by our bed, too. So you feel welcome.”

He goes silent, ducking his head again. "Oh, sure, you'll get the easy ones," he says. She thinks she can feel him smiling, where she can't see.

“We’ll learn what kind you like,” she tells him. “I’m sure we’ll hear about it if we guess wrong, so—“

He makes an offended noise, but she can tell he’s playing along. “Maybe I don’t want to fool around regularly with people who think so little of me,” he says, and _that_ , she has no trouble recognizing as a question. What are they; what is this.

She doesn't have an answer, just has this urgent hope in her chest that they're all on the same page, that they can have this. That Lovett wants them, both of them. She thinks they can all make it work, the mornings and soft afternoons and days by the pool, good days and bad days and everything in between, in bed and out.

"Well," Emily says, carefully, "what if we—" The metaphors are getting away from her. She just—wants to get this right.

“We don’t just want to fool around with you,” she says, after a minute. “Just to be clear.”

“Fuck around,” Lovett amends. “Penetration obviously on the menu.”

“No, I mean—“ She thought they were on the same page, and now it sticks in her throat, offering something he might not want. A new mattress pad, Sudoku—none of those are about anything but sex, necessarily. She wishes Jon were awake, even though he’d probably trip over his tongue even more than she is.

She can feel her throat tightening up. "I mean," she says again, "we don't just want to—to sleep with you. We want—" she can hear her breathing wobble, which is frustrating more than anything. She wishes she had underwear on, at least, and from the tension gathering in Lovett's shoulders, she's guessing he's feeling the same. "If you—if you want it too, we'd like—to _be_ with you, too."

Lovett’s breathing has gotten loud, too-fast. He says, after a minute, “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not—people don’t do that. Happily married people don’t risk ruining their perfect lives with, with—people have running threesomes, sometimes, if they need some spice in their lives. If you can call this ‘spice,’ I guess.”

Emily is not going to cry. She's _not_. It won't help, and it'll freak them both out.

"Lovett," she says, and he ducks his head again, further, almost curled up by her side. His back is tense under the flat of her hand, and she realises, suddenly, inevitably, that a running threesome thing would eat her and Jon alive. Neither of them would be good at having Lovett so close, so intertwined with them, if they weren't able to love him too.

“You can just say no,” she says, finally. “If you don’t want to be with us, you can just say no, and it’s fine, we’ll make it—we’ll be normal, I swear. But don’t—don’t tell me what _people_ do, what _people_ risk, okay? Don’t—“ Fuck, fuck, she’s crying. She hitches a sob, tries to keep it down. “This can’t be one of your pet issues, that, that we’re crazy to—“ She loses it again, and behind Lovett, Jon sits up, suddenly wide awake.

“Emily? What’s wrong?”

"I," Lovett says, and he sounds distraught, "I don't—Em, no, don't cry, please," and she's covering her face, trying pointlessly to hide it. She can feel the bed shifting, Jon sitting up, reaching over to her.

“Um,” Jon says, sounding like he’s trying to keep everyone calm. “What did I miss?”

Lovett makes a noise, says, “Your wife is—generous to a fault. Offering things that—you guys shouldn’t give.”

"You don't get to tell us what we want to give," Emily chokes, trying to pull herself together. "You don't have to want the same thing but you can't tell us _we_ don't want it."

When she glances up, Lovett's chin is crumbling, his face screwing up and smoothing out like he's fighting the same emotion as she is, and, behind him, Jon looks like he understands.

“We do,” Jon says. “I mean, stop me if I’m getting this really wrong, because neither of you are exactly using useful words or phrases, but we want—everything. If you want that. Which I guess you don’t, so—“

“Okay, wait, let’s not get too, you know, decisive,” Lovett gets in. His voice isn’t exactly steady, but his tone is firm. “Let’s not jump to any untested conclusions, this isn’t the Post’s editorial page.”

Right there—that’s when Emily knew it was going to be okay.

She sniffs in hard, and wipes her face, and sits up. Lovett watches her like he thinks she might explode, like her crying is the worst thing he could think of. "So," she says, still uneven. "So, you're saying—you're saying—"

Lovett sits up too, pulls a pillow over his crotch. Jon is still stark naked, and apparently unconcerned about it.

"You two are relentless, you know that," Lovett says, and, god, there's this sweet bubble of hope opening up in Emily's chest, lightening her ribcage.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Yeah, we’re real bulldogs, so you’d better just go along with it if—if you think you could be happy—“ She loses it again, happy-nervous tears now, and Jon sits half on top of Lovett to kiss her temple and wipe the tear tracks with his thumbs.

“Here,” he tells Lovett. “It doesn’t feel as bad if you help.” He picks Lovett’s hand up and brings it to Emily’s face.

Lovett's hand is unsteady, but he wipes gently at Emily's tears, face crumpling up again as she sniffs and smiles at him. "If I _think_ I could be happy?" he repeats. "If I think—" and it's his turn, voice breaking, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Fuck," he says, self-conscious, and shakes his head and keeps going. "You guys make me _so_ happy, I can't even—you don't even know."

“I’m not going to cry,” Jon puts in. “Just, you know, I can do the group emotions thing, but I have limits.”

Lovett laughs, wiping at his own eyes. “That’s probably good,” he says. “Good to have one, like, strong stoic type in a—in a relationship.”

Emily could have a measured reaction to that word. She could also just squeal and pull them into a too-tight group hug, and honestly, that seems more enjoyable.

"You're squashing me," Lovett says, voice still high and wobbling, but he's clinging on just as tightly, arms around them both. The room still smells of sex and Emily can't stop happy-crying, giggling into the side of Jon's neck.

“ _Now_ we need the dogs in here,” Lovett says, after a minute. “They should get to be hugged, too.”

“We can do that,” Emily says, still holding him tight. “Jon can do that.”

“Jon can do that,” Jon agrees, disentangling himself and finding his pants on the floor. “Gimme a second. Puppies incoming.”

He lingers in the doorway, looking back at them, shirtless and pink-cheeked and smiling.

"Gross," Lovett says, squeezing Emily again.

“Isn’t he just?” Emily agrees, sighing. “Puppies now, please,” she adds, and Jon grins and disappears from sight.

“Not to be that clingy post-coital person,” Emily tells Lovett, “but just FYI, I love you.” She’s said it before, a million times. It doesn’t even really mean that much different today, except for all the ways it’s nothing like the same.

Lovett laughs, watery. They're both clinging to each other. "I love you," he says. "You know. I mean, you _do_ know. But you know."

Emily giggles. "I know," she says. and she _does_. She can let herself see it now, can feel it in the way he's tucked up next to her, the way he swallows, and turns, tilting his head in a question, and kisses her, quietly, when she nods.

They’re still kissing when Leo and Pundit leap onto the bed, snouts wet from the water fountain. “Oh my god,” Emily splutters, pushing Pundit’s enthusiastic face away from her. “Help!”

“I’ll save you,” Jon says gallantly, picking Pundit up and handing her to Lovett. It would be a sweeter gesture if he hadn’t been the one who let them run in with wet faces.

Emily drags Jon in by his shirt and obnoxiously dries her face on it. Beside her, Lovett is laughing, fending off Pundit's more determined snuffles at his bare neck with another pillow.

She’s overcome with love. This, right here—the three of them, and their dogs, and maybe someday—anyway. This is everything she’s wanted and not known how to talk about for years.

She doesn’t need to say anything else about it, she thinks; everyone in the room is feeling it, maybe even the dogs.

She says, instead, “Let’s to get brunch. I’ll let you both be on your phones for most of it, even.”

Lovett is still wrestling with Pundit, but he still manages to say, "Don't let Jon, he can't behave. He should be on a Twitter timeout. Distract him with breakfast food."

Jon looks distracted enough as it is, watching Lovett and Emily and the dogs in a heap on the bed, Leo's wet nose nudging at Emily's thigh. "I can behave," he says, and then clearly hears himself, and goes, slowly, red.

Emily smirks, lets Lovett see her. “Maybe later,” she says.

Lovett sighs, cartoonishly exaggerated. “Okay, let’s not go wild here. Some of us are in our mid thirties. This is already more sex than I’ve had in—“ He cuts off, makes a face. “A while.”

Emily is—just going to have to not think too hard about that until they've eaten, or at the very least until the dogs aren't nearby. Lovett, needing it. Maybe—maybe he'd show them how much he needs it, one time. Maybe he'd like to make Jon wait instead.

"Okay!" Emily announces, picking herself up and trying not to let Leo paw anything he shouldn't. "Brunch! Brunch first, and then—" she can't find the words.

“Then we’ll, whatever,” Lovett says. “This is how people chafe their—anyway. Anyway.” He gets up, too, gets new—identical—sweats out of a drawer and pulls them on. Sans underwear, Emily can’t help but notice.

“I think the gentleman doth protest too much,” she tells him.

"The gentleman doth not," Lovett says, laughing, and notices Jon staring. Emily gets it, she does—Lovett, happy and rumpled and theirs, all theirs. She feels warm, and good, brimming over with it.

“Let’s take the dogs,” Jon says, after a long moment of the three of them just smiling stupidly at each other. “Find a place with a patio, take our time. Drink some mimosas.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a date,” Lovett says.

“Yeah,” Jon agrees.

Lovett changes his t-shirt, drops the old, sweaty one on the floor. Pundit immediately pounces on it, pawing at it happily. "Huh," Lovett says. He's not looking at them but Emily can see the smile tugging at his mouth, irrepressible. "A date."

"We just went over this," Emily says, but she's smiling too. "Us. You. Dates. Dates etc. The whole thing."

Jon has picked up Leo, despite his wet nose, cradling him close. He looks rumpled, and handsome, and _happy_ , beaming at Lovett, at Emily, like he can't believe his luck. "You in?" he says, and Lovett looks up at him, looks back at Emily, and grins.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm in."

**Author's Note:**

> Contains sudden, sex-pollen-driven, non-negotiated sexual contact (between all three characters) but with verbal consent and follow-up conversations that confirm solidity of consent.


End file.
